


Dire Straits

by taylorgibbs



Category: NCIS
Genre: Help Haiti, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-10-31
Updated: 2010-10-31
Packaged: 2017-10-13 00:10:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,630
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/130679
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/taylorgibbs/pseuds/taylorgibbs
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Tony and his father are trapped and lives hang in the balance, they struggle to reach an understanding.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dire Straits

Anthony D. DiNozzo Senior groaned and blinked his eyes open slowly. For a moment he only felt pain, brief flashes of pain that made him want to cry out, even though he was far too dignified to show that weakness to anyone. Most especially the man beside him. He blinked his eyes shut, keeping them closed, swallowing the bile that threatened to choke and spill over. DiNozzos never showed weakness, no matter the circumstances. No matter the personal cost. It was what they did.

Anthony kept his eyes closed as he tried to recall what had happened. Junior had been driving, taking him back to Union Station for his train back to Manhattan when there had been a call from Gibbs. His son had apologetically offered to get him a cab, but he'd said he'd tag along. There were other trains and he could exchange his ticket for another later on with no penalty.

Anthony would never have admitted it, but he enjoyed these capers, this life his boy led. Junior would always be a bit of a disappointment, but at least he offered entertainment, and some very attractive women. While Abby was a bit too young for him, Anthony couldn't help wondering about the financial portfolio of Ziva. Surely the daughter of the head of Mossad had some income and investments and he could help her divest herself of them. His charm worked on women of all ages, and the well had run dry. He needed a new lady on his arm and she would do.

As Junior had driven them toward a mountain approaching West Virginia, it had started raining and his son's hands had tightened on the steering wheel. Anthony had offered to take over from Junior, making an empty gesture that he knew would never be taken up on. It was only polite after all. Junior had only shook his head, looking grim and determined, even as the rain had turned to ice, the road narrowing.

Then...nothing. Anthony had a vague memory of his son shouting and throwing an arm across to brace him. Him! As if he was a child to be protected. His ears rang with the sound of screeching metal and shattering glass and...

We've been in an accident, he realized, the images and thought processes clarifying in his head. Junior and I have been in an accident!

He took in a deep, shocked breath and his chest screamed, what had to be broken ribs grinding and protesting any movement. Anthony tried to grit his teeth, but felt the fine sand and rough edges of chipped teeth. It was going to cost a fortune to get these fixed to his exacting standards. The grit in his mouth had mixed with the iron tang of blood, and only then did he realize his son wasn't making any sound at all.

"Junior!" he called out, making his eyes open even though he didn't want to. He blinked a few times, trying to clear his field of vision. He turned his head slowly, expecting to see that his son was outside the car, that Junior was just fine. That Junior was flagging down a passing motorist.

Instead, he saw a slumped and bloodied form, supported by a partially deflated airbag that was stained with the younger man's blood. "Junior!" he tried again, twisting his body to reach his son. To check, to make sure he wasn't…

"Junior!" he tried again, all sense of propriety thrown out the broken window. He scrabbled at his seat belt, finally unbuckling it, but he couldn't maneuver enough to lean over. He was stuck somehow.

Anthony looked down in mild disinterest only to see the dashboard had fused itself to his legs. He tried moving them and blackness crept into his vision. Even though he knew he had to reach his son, he was too weak to fight the darkness.

~*~

Tony couldn't remember when he'd ever had a headache this bad. It was worse than his last round of sake bombing with the NCIS agents in from Japan. His whole body was on fire; this was a hell of a hangover.

Tony tried to lift his head from the strange pillow when everything came back to him with startling clarity. The ice on the road, the car tires spinning, and the huge tree looming in the windshield.

He opened his eyes, making sure his neck and back weren't injured before moving. His neck resisted movement, but Tony didn't think it was permanently damaged. He glanced over at his father, slumped in the passenger seat, the old man's mouth open, puffs of misty air filling the car. At least he was alive. Tony swiped a hand over his face, wiping away blood and a few gummy shards of safety glass.

"Dad? Dad, come on, wake up." Tony wiped his hand on the airbag and reached over, supporting his father's head with one hand. "Come on, Dad!" He was aware that there was a thread of panic running through his voice, but Tony couldn't quite pinpoint why. Something hovered at the very edge of his memory, something he couldn't quite bring to mind, the ghostly memory that made his stomach clench until it came back with clarity and he resolutely batted it away. It would rear up again, but for now, he'd push it to the back of his mind.

He began to twist, but met resistance, and pain, so much damn pain that he cried out despite the man beside him, the one who'd paddled his ass raw whenever Tony'd showed weakness. What the hell was wrong?

He glanced down finally, trying to identify the source of the crushing pain.

"The wheel," Tony muttered, suddenly short of breath. He coughed a few times, wincing when a few red streaks of blood speckled the hand that covered his mouth. The damn steering wheel was wedged against his lower rib cage and there was no way he could get out.

Tony tried like hell to slow his breathing, knowing that hyperventilating would magnify the pain. Yeah, a few ribs had to be broken, but he could breathe okay—for now. In this cold, a plague survivor with scarred lungs didn't have a great chance.

Tony flexed his legs and plumped his feet, making sure he had good range of motion there. Once he determined his legs and feet were okay, he tried to lever himself up, hoping to move the wheel just enough so it wasn't exerting pressure on his chest and constricting his breathing.

But it wouldn't budge. The wheel was locked down tight, pinning Tony in his seat. The pressure wasn't severe, but it was there, threatening him, making him aware of just how much they were screwed. Reminding him of what it was like to struggle for every breath.

"Dad," Tony tried again, his voice high and tight, panic winning for the moment. He had to be a cop—had to be reasoned and calm, cool, and in control. But for a second he was an eight year old in a back seat of a car much nicer than this one. A boy trying like hell to wake his mom and dad up.

Tony reached for his father's hand, gripping it. The memories and panic were overwhelming him. He had to get control. "What would Gibbs do? What would Gibbs do?" Tony chanted a few times.

Gibbs! He fumbled in his pocket for his cell phone, pulling it out. The crystal screen was shattered, but the thing worked. He tried Gibbs' number, torn between relief and worry. Gibbs would get here and Gibbs would fix everything.

"Boss!" he yelled into the phone when he heard a click. "B…" Tony trailed off, pulling the phone away from his ear. He stared at the screen, teeth sinking into his lip. No service! Tony had no way of knowing if it was the mountain road or the conditions. And they were still at least twenty miles away from the crime scene. It would take a while for the team to realize they were missing.

Tony shook his head slowly, tucking the phone away. At least with it on there was a chance Abby could find him by GPS. And maybe it wouldn't be too late. Tony shivered as a blast of icy air tore through the shattered windows.

"What would Gibbs do?"

~*~  
Anthony had been watching his son for the past few minutes. He hadn't wanted to disturb Junior when the younger man had been making his phone call. Junior's fingers were icy where they held his, and Anthony didn't dare pull away, much as he wanted to.

But when his son echoed that phrase again, he knew he had to speak. "Gibbs isn't god, Junior."

"Dad!" The relief in his son's voice faded away to a wheezy gasp and Anthony looked closely at his son. The airbag obscured things, but it looked as if his son was pinned in by the steering column.

"Junior," he acknowledged, trying for a close mouth smile. "How bad?" he asked, knowing his own voice held a fair share of pain.

"Pinned," Junior admitted, wincing. "Not too bad, but I can't get out. No cell service." He glanced over, eyes narrowing, his hand tightening where they were linked. "How bad, Dad?"

Anthony wanted to give his son a glib reply, but he knew circumstances demanded the truth. "Chipped at least a tooth, My legs are pinned. Maybe broken, I'm not sure." He wouldn't mention his broken ribs. He didn't want to alarm his son.

"Where is your phone?" Junior asked, his green eyes burning with intensity. Anthony felt a searing pain as he remembered another car accident, another pair of green eyes fading. And a little boy hysterically sobbing in the back seat as his mother died in front of them both.

"No!" He wasn't aware he had shouted the word until Junior's hand tightened on his to the point of pain. Anthony started to pull away, but then Junior made that pained whimper that brought him back to a night in 1979 and the frightened little boy he hadn't been able to help. This time he'd be different.

"Junior," he began, his voice quiet. "My phone is in my bag in the trunk."

"God dammit," his son swore softly, a shudder running through him. Anthony couldn't help remembering the conversation he and Gibbs had some months ago, where Gibbs said Junior had almost died of the plague. He'd looked up the news reports when he'd arrived at home. The mention of pneumonic plague was barely a footnote in an article, but it had been enough. He'd extensively researched the condition, enough that he knew that a cold night and scarred lungs were a bad mix. And adding in that Junior's breathing capabilities may have been compromised…

"It's okay, Junior," he said, trying to keep his voice steady. Comforting his son wasn't anything that came naturally to him, not even now that Junior was a grown adult. He hadn't understood the boy any better than he understood the man today.

"No, it's not, Gibbs doesn't know where to find us and—" A burst of coughing interrupted his son's words. Junior tried to wrench his hand away, but Anthony laced his fingers in the other man's, wrapping his free hand over their entwined fingers.

"Gibbs isn't a superhero, Junior," he reminded carefully. "He's just a man. A man you think the world of, but still only a man."

"You don't understand," Junior said, having caught his breath. Anthony studied the flecks of blood on his son's other hand, but chose not to comment on them.

"Make me," he said quietly. "Make me understand why this boss of yours means so much to you, Junior."

"He's…" He son trailed off, frustrated. "He's… Gibbs."

Anthony turned his head, regarding his son. "You say it like he's more than a man."

"He is!" Junior said in a burst of sound. Then he looked away. Anthony wanted to pull away, to set his emotions to rights, but he found he couldn't. This was an extraordinary circumstance, and he had to do what he could.

"Tell me about it." Anthony paused for a moment, gathering his thoughts, warming his son's hand between his. "When you were sick," he prodded gently.

Junior turned his head and locked gazes with Anthony, his eyes sharpening, the ghost of his mother creeping over his expression for a moment in time. Then it was gone, leaving Anthony feeling unsettled, nervous. He would not lose Junior as he'd lost her!

"He told me to live," Junior said simply. Anthony didn't dare interrupt, just nodded once, encouraging his son to go on. "Mom was waiting for me. And a redheaded woman and a little girl." He coughed a couple of times and wiped the blood off his lip. "They were standing there, waiting. And then Gibbs was there, tapping me on the head. Telling me…Ordering. He ordered me to live."

And you wanted to go, Anthony finished silently. He knew that wistful look in his son's eyes, and suddenly something very chilling occurred to him. Was Junior seeing those people outside the car? Waiting… He risked a look into the darkness, the moderate snowfall lending an ethereal quality to the ravine. Anthony swallowed hard, unable to even formulate the words, unable to bring the possibility to mind.

"I'm not losing you, Junior," he whispered fiercely. He'd never been good expressing his love to the boy. That was what women did. Junior was expected to excel at his sports and be seen and not heard, unless commanded. Clare was the one who was supposed to be the nurturer, but that hadn't worked out as any of them had expected.

"Not losing me," his son repeated, strained. "Wouldn't…do that."

There it was, what Anthony had been expecting one of them had to bring up and address. "Nor would I," he told his son, meeting Junior's eyes. "We have to get through this. It won't be like…it was."

It hurt Anthony to say those words, even though he knew it had to be first and foremost in their minds. They'd never talked about it, never discussed it. It had been too convenient to ignore in the wake of hospitalizations, and then the shock of losing his wife. And the drinking. Oh, there had been so much drinking. He'd been in a haze for months, sending his son off to boarding school because he couldn't deal with looking at his wife's eyes in that little face.

He'd done wrong by that boy. And he hadn't done much better by that man. They played at being a family, but both of them knew that it wasn't any more authentic than the veneer he painted in his business dealings.

"I remember too much," Junior said, his voice shaking. "That night…"

"Tell me." His hands tightened slightly on his son's.

"I…" Junior began, trailing off, his eyes glinting. "This brings it all back." A shudder ripped through him, and Anthony was barely able to hold back his concern. But it became clear from the way his boy's hand clenched at his that this was emotional rather than physical pain. And for the first time in many years, Anthony wanted to know, wanted to remember, wanted to share this with his boy.

"Tell me what you remember, Junior," he said, knowing his voice was shaking and not caring. This went beyond DiNozzo machismo. This went beyond bravado. This was family.

~*~

Tony looked over at his father, trying to gauge his reaction, trying to read the truth in his eyes. He twisted as much as he could, reaching into the map pocket in his door and pulling out a Mag lite, which he flicked on. The bright beam shined out into the night, illuminating the cabin enough that he could clearly see his father's face. This was something he wanted to do man to man, face to face, eye to eye. It was exactly what his father deserved.

"We'd been in the Hamptons," Tony began, trying to steady his voice. Hearing his father's voice shaking so badly had rattled him, and he couldn't help wanting to calm the older man down. They were both stuck in this car, pinned. It wouldn't end well and Tony knew that. So what the hell did he have to lose by sharing the truth, all of it? He was sure the old man hoped he didn't remember.

"You'd been working some deals and Mom had been lunching with her friends," Tony continued. He remembered the blazing sun on his sailor suit, the salty tang of the ocean. When he'd been allowed to get into a pair of swim trucks and had been slathered with suntan lotion, it had seemed like the best day ever. Funny how it had become a nightmare so quickly.

"We had to go back home that night. Uncle Clive was in town, wasn't he?" His father nodded just once, his eyes moist and more liquid than Tony could remember. "You'd had a lot to drink. Mom was…okay."

Tony wasn't convinced—his mother had loved her mint juleps, her gin and tonics, her champagne spritzers, too much. And unlike his old man—back then anyway—she hadn't known when to stop.

"Your mother was okay," his father said, his voice firm and stronger than Tony would have thought it was capable of being, given the circumstances. "She was sober, Junior. I know she was."

Tony was struck by the depth of emotion in his father's voice and just stared into the older man's gaze, realizing for the first time that they weren't far from the shade of blue of Gibbs' eyes. He nodded, still unconvinced.

"I checked her over, Junior. She hadn't had anything to drink with dinner. I was impaired, but she wasn't." There was a world of pain and regret in his father's voice, and Tony started to open his mouth to comment when his father squeezed his hand gently. "I know."

The simple declaration hit Tony right in the soul and he nodded once, slowly, his aching neck stretching and popping. Tony finally broke his father's gaze, focusing his attention on the snow swirling outside what would probably become their coffin.

"I was full from dinner. Mom was driving, you were humming something."

"Sinatra. She always loved him." His father sniffed once—loudly.

"I don't need to continue," Tony said, rushing the words out before a pained groan wrenched itself out.

"You do," his father insisted quietly. "For thirty years, I've wondered. I've agonized over what went trough your head. If this is the end for either of us—"

"Dad!" None of them needed to be thinking this way.

"Junior, let's be realistic. It isn't getting any better out there. The tracks from the car could be covered by now and I haven't seen a single set of lights, have you?"

"No," Tony allowed, knowing defeat was sinking into his voice. He'd need to rally them both later, but right now he was too tired, too defeated.

"Tell me about that night, son," his father finished, stumbling over the last word.

Tony pulled in as much air as he could, cataloguing that it was getting harder to breathe. Maybe his father was right and they didn't have much time left. He could give the old man what he needed.

"You were singing. You'd switched from Sinatra to Dean Martin, didn't you? Mambo Italiano and then…" Tony swallowed hard. "You started singing…That's Amore. And…"

"And?" his father choked out, and Tony could see he was barely holding back. He pressed his hand firmly against his father's, where his father still clasped his.

"Something happened. A tire…" Tony closed his eyes, unable to face looking at the pain in his father's face. Unable to imagine the pain in Gibbs' blue eyes when he found their bodies or was told about them when they were finally discovered.

"A tire," his father confirmed in a near-whisper.

Tony nodded, free hand clenching the steering wheel, other hand clinging to his father's. All the terror of that night came rushing back to him, the banging sound. The thumps as the tire shredded, the car going around in circles, the metallic screech as it impacted the guardrail. Then…the silence.

Tony had no idea how long he'd been unconscious, but when he'd awakened, scared, bruised, with a broken wrist that he cradled to his bruised chest, he'd been panicked. He'd called out for his parents until his voice was hoarse, the metallic tang of blood, the sharper scent of fear, and the acrid odor of gasoline filling the car.

He'd been so scared then because he'd wet himself, and between that and blood from his nose, he'd known he'd ruined the sailor suit. Mommy was going to be so angry. She was so angry that she was sleeping, and so was Daddy. And he was so scared, he needed them.

"Mommy!" Tony called out, the adult timbre of his voice startling him back to awareness. He couldn't go on, free hand covering his face and scrubbing at his cheeks. He would not cry. He would not embarrass the family name by showing weakness.

~*~

"If I had the power to give her back to you…" Anthony said, knowing his voice was ravaged by the memories. Junior's eyes were screwed shut, his expression agonized.

He sat in silence, waiting for his son's breathing to even out. When Junior seemed to relax, Anthony picked up the thread of memory. "There was no hope for her, Junior. She was too badly injured. Ruptured spleen, broken ribs, her left leg had been badly broken." And the head injury that had kept her awake but not truly aware.

Anthony remembered jerking to wakefulness after the impact, bruised but not badly injured. He'd checked on the boy first, looking after the DiNozzo heir before seeing to his wife. It was clear Anthony had been shaken up, but when he'd asked Junior what hurt, the boy had only held up his wrist, which had been clearly, but cleanly, broken.

Then Anthony had turned his attention to his wife. The impact had crushed the driver's side of the car and she was in bad shape. He could tell by the way she had been breathing so unevenly, not too different from how Junior was now. Anthony sucked in a sharp breath, groaning as his ribs protested the movement.

"You left me," Junior remarked.

He had, and that must have terrified the boy. "I had to get help," he explained, knowing it didn't sound any better now than it had then. With rushed reassurances to the little boy in the back seat, Anthony had stumbled out of the car and had run a short distance to a house, begging them to call the police. The elderly couple there had promised to do so, handing him blankets. He should have brought Junior to them, should have shielded the boy from what was to come. But how could he have known?

"Only ten minutes, Junior."

"She woke up and she was scared. She thought you'd left her."

Anthony winced, allowing his own eyes to close. It must have been so terrifying for the boy. "I'm sorry," he told his son in all sincerity. "I had to get help, but you shouldn't have been put through that."

"Doesn't matter. She's gone now. We had to watch her die. I knew she was getting worse. The blood smell was getting stronger." He tried to wrench his hand back, but Anthony held tight to the last part of Clare he had.

"We had to make her last moments easier," Anthony allowed. "Do you remember what we did?"

"You told me…" Junior trailed off, letting out a choking sound that had Anthony's eyes snapping open. But it was emotion—raw and agonizing—emotional pain rather than physical right now.

"I told you to talk to her," he finished. "I knew you were a perceptive enough boy to know what was happening, and I couldn't let her die to the sounds of you screaming. We worked together to make your mother's last moments peaceful. Do you remember what you said, Junior?"

His son nodded, a barely there jerky motion.

"Remind an old man," he finished, his voice quiet and reverent.

"I told her we'd look after each other. And…and…I'd be a good boy. I'd…make her…"

"Proud," Anthony finished, unwilling to listen to his son struggle. He paused, wrestling with words he knew came from the heart, though they were so hard for him to say.

"And she would be, Junior. She'd be so proud of you. This was never the path I would have chosen for you, but you do a fine job. A job a mother would be proud of. A job your father is proud of."

Those eyes—so much like Clare's—widened and his boy regarded him silently.

"Do you mean that?"

"I mean it," Anthony replied, giving his son a brief nod. "This career and this agency are good for you. You've…settled. You've done well."

"That was what I needed to hear," Junior said, closing his eyes. An icy fist surrounded Anthony's heart when he realized he couldn't see his son's chest rising and falling any more.

~*~

"Junior!" Anthony DiNozzo struggled to the surface, dimly hearing someone calling for his son. Who was it who sounded so upset, so broken. "Junior!"

"Easy, easy. Your son is doing as well as can be expected. Now lie back and let the paramedics have a look at you. My, you gave us quite a scare!" Anthony tried to struggle to a sitting position, but his legs were immobile and he was in agony.

"Junior! Pinned, his chest…" He looked at the man he remembered was the doctor from NCIS. The medical examiner. Junior hadn't been breathing!

He struggled to look over to his left, where there was a crowd surrounding a stretcher a few feet away. A man leaned over, stroking his son's face gently. Gibbs. That was Gibbs, Junior's boss.

"Junior!" he called again, and a faint voice—his son's—called back something that was lost in the commotion.

"There, see. He'll be just fine. These gentlemen are going to finish taking your vitals and get your IV established and then we can get you both to the hospital. I'll see to it that you get regular updates." The man patted his shoulder and Anthony allowed the darkness to claim him again.

~*~  
The first sensation he was aware of was warmth. The bone-aching cold from before was just a memory brushing at the corners of his mind. The antiseptic smell and steady beeping of machines lulled him into a more relaxed wakeful state, as did the quiet voices conversing in the room. Anthony opened his eyes and looked around, taking in the scene.

His boy was in another bed, Gibbs and Doctor Mallard on the opposite side of the room, hovering over his son's inert body. Junior bore a snowy white bandage on his forehead and appeared to be resting easily. An oxygen cannula snaked its way down his face and his monitors beeped and chirped steadily. Gibbs' hand was smoothing down his son's hair in a way that was protective, possessive, and Anthony pushed away the thoughts that were starting to crowd into his head. He was exhausted, he was in pain, he couldn't bank on the intent of the gestures he was seeing.

He stayed silent for a few moments, watching the play of emotions on Gibbs' face, the fierce determination, the way he was safeguarding Junior from any threats. As Anthony watched, Gibbs' face softened and he leaned down, whispering something to Junior, mouth almost touching Junior's cheek.

The act was too intimate and Anthony looked away, returning his gaze to the men only when he heard the doctor and Gibbs taking together again. Even though he felt like an interloper, he needed to know how Junior was doing.

"How is he?" Anthony asked, and both men looked over at him in surprise. Gibbs came over, easing himself into a chair. Even though the blinds were closed, Anthony had the impression that some time—perhaps hours—had passed.

"How are you, "Gibbs asked, emphasizing the last word, his voice cool. "Got pretty beat up there."

As Gibbs was saying the words, Anthony was taking stock of his injuries. Surely some of his ribs must be broken. And his legs didn't feel quite right either. "I'll live," he allowed, angling his head toward his son. "How is he?"

"Three broken ribs, right side. Patella is in bad shape, I'm afraid." The doctor came over as well, leaning in close and giving him a gentle smile.

"Patella?" Anthony asked. That was the knee, and Junior hadn't been pinned in any way. "Breathing? Oxygen?"

The doctor and Gibbs exchanged a look and finally the doctor's eyes brightened in comprehension.

"Oh no, no. Your breathing is fine. Your O2 stats are in the ninety-six to ninety-eight range, Anthony. You're breathing quite well considering you were stuck out there for hours."

"Junior," he replied, motioning over to his son. Anthony watched Gibbs' hands grasp the rail of his hospital bed, tightening until the knuckles whitened. "How is my son?"

"Oh! Yes, of course! He's having a harder time of it, of course. The steering wheel dramatically reduced his ability to breathe and those broken ribs certainly didn't help matters. His oxygen saturation is a bit of a concern, but he's resting comfortably. He's on some antibiotic therapy and we have every expectation that he will be just fine."

The doctor paused. "It's a good thing Abby was able to track your cell phones to your locations when she did. I shudder to think of both of you out there for much longer."

Anthony let out a breath he hadn't known he'd been holding and sank back into the pillows.

"Why do you care?" Gibbs asked, his voice steely. Anthony was reminded of the man who he'd gone head to head with and told to piss off at the NCIS headquarters some months ago. This was not a man to be crossed. Then again, neither was Anthony David DiNozzo.

"He is my son," Anthony replied to the other men.

"Got a hell of a way of showing it," Gibbs shot back. "I told you not to screw it up, but you did. You haven't been in contact with him for months. I had to call and drag you back here. You didn't listen when I told you to make the most of him. And you damn near lost him."

"Jethro!"

"No, Ducky. Someone needs to tell this guy some home truths and that's gonna be me."

"Not here, Jethro. And not now. The man has been through a trauma. There will be time to have this conversation later."

"So has Tony," Gibbs retorted. He leaned in, gripping the rail of the hospital bed even tighter, if that was possible. "Tony is mine, do you understand. Nine years he's worked under me. You can't step up? Then you need to get the hell out of his life. You're a complication he doesn't need."

"Jethro!"

"Not done, Duck!"

"Oh yes you are!"

Anthony watched as the much smaller man pulled Gibbs to his feet, shooting Anthony an apologetic look. He shepherded Gibbs out of the room and Anthony managed a relieved sigh.

"He's wrong, isn't he, Dad?" Junior sounded tired, but strong, his voice steady.

"Junior! I was so afraid—" Anthony stopped himself before he went any further.

"Don't do that! Don't be so damn guarded. I argue with Jethro all the time about… I…I mean…" It was clear Junior had said something he hadn't intended. The blood drained right out of his face and he chewed his lower lip, looking lost and alone.

"Jethro?" Anthony questioned quietly. His mind was leaps and bounds ahead of his mouth, making tentative connections he suspected weren't wild conjecture, but were instead the clear and easy path to a truth he would have been blind not to see.

His son set his jaw and nodded slightly, a brief motion. "Jethro. That's his name. Leroy Jethro, but only his father calls him Leroy. Beats the hell out of Boss or Gibbs when we're not on the clock." He lifted the head of his bed, his gaze steady on Anthony's.

"Are you off the clock very…much?" It was the most delicate way to ask the question he wanted answered.

"Every night and weekend," his son replied, his voice even. It was clear Junior had a lot more to say, but he kept silent, allowing Anthony to filter the information through. It wasn't a shock; he knew about Junior's dalliances with other men on summer breaks, but they had never discussed it. Yet he would never have expected his boy to have forged a bond with that man. He was so different to Anthony, so taciturn. So…unexpected.

"Are you happy?" Anthony asked finally. "With your job…and off the job?"

"I am," Junior replied, his voice shaking once again. "And Mom…do you still think she'd be proud?"

"I know she is, son." And she isn't the only one, he added silently. This accident had been the wake up call Anthony had needed. Maybe he could be the father his son deserved, step by step and day by day.

"We're going to be okay," Junior declared, his voice ringing strong in the room. He had infused his own steely determination into his tone.

"It's a start, Junior…Tony."


End file.
